


All You Distrust, All You Save

by GloriousBlackout



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriousBlackout/pseuds/GloriousBlackout
Summary: Nebula could be forgiven for hoping things couldn't get much worse than being stranded in space with a man she barely knows and little chance of rescue. Unfortunately, the universe has a habit of proving her wrong.Missing scenes from Nebula and Tony's difficult journey back to Earth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a year since I last wrote something for these two and it turns out I've missed them a lot. I adored the brief glimpse of their relationship we got in Avengers Endgame and haven't been able to get this story out of my head since I saw it. Hopefully updates will be relatively quick as I have most of the story written in first-draft form.
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy this and any feedback is appreciated! Title originates from the song 'Eclipse' by Pink Floyd.

Forty-eight hours. That's how long it takes the  _Benatar_ to die once she's saved her occupants from Titan.

Both Nebula and Stark fight to save her for close to an hour. The initial screeching of alarms instantly rouses them from silent reveries and they leap into action without hesitation; Nebula taking manual control of the ship while Stark lists off endless diagnostics and sets to work, fixing what he can.

It's quite possibly the longest hour of Nebula's existence. The air becomes filled with a frantic cacophony of her and Stark's yelling back and forth as they fight to be heard over the steely groan of failing engines. Before long, she cannot tell when he's saying anything over the deafening racket. Nevertheless, she quickly learns to block out the chaos as she wrestles for control of a ship that fights her at every turn, for she has no other choice.

Sixty critical minutes pass in a daze. Nebula doesn't even notice Stark at her side until he too is struggling for control of the ship, yet together they buy as much time as they can despite the buried certainty that their joint efforts will be in vain.

When the end comes, it does so with the groan of a dying animal. The  _Benatar_  stumbles to a shuddering halt as her engines finally fall into sickening silence. Nebula and Stark can only sit in shared horror as every light flickers and dies; cascading them into crushing blackness before the backup generator kicks into gear, announcing itself with the activation of artificial green light. Alongside the faint buzz of slowly recovering systems, the only sound left is their ragged breathing, and there is a moment where Nebula wonders if the heavy silence will suffocate her.

Their current predicament is far from unpredictable. Nebula can't decide if that makes it better or worse.

Throughout the entirety of the  _Benatar_ 's short flight, she had pointedly ignored the fact that they lacked the structural integrity to perform a space jump, nor the fuel to get them to Terra without first stopping elsewhere. Such knowledge had lingered at the back of her mind, certainly, but she'd ploughed on in the hopes that they would stumble upon a planet that could offer ample opportunity to run further repairs. The extreme turbulence upon leaving Titan's wastes should have served as a warning that their voyage would not last, yet the forty-eight hours since breeching the atmosphere had been deceptively smooth.

Had the  _Benatar_  been fully functional, they'd be on Terra by now. The navigational systems had estimated the planet to be a mere fifty-eight jumps from Titan; a day's journey at most. In her present state, however, the shear forces of such an endeavour would have ripped the ship apart, and so Nebula had resigned herself to the likelihood of a weeks-long voyage as they travelled the old-fashioned way. The idea had been an unappealing one, but she'd reasoned that anything was better than rotting on Titan.

It's not like she had anywhere else to go.

Regardless, none of that matters now. Weeks that would have been spent trawling through multiple star-systems will now be spent slowly rotting in this one. With time, Nebula imagines a great despair will collapse upon her as the true helplessness of her situation sinks in. For now though, she can only clench her jaw and lean back in her seat in an admission of silent defeat.

At her side, Stark sits stock-still and lost. Wide brown eyes gaze out to the surrounding emptiness and distant burning stars he will never see up-close. His breathing is more rapid than usual – from panic or pain she cannot tell – and his hands tremble in his lap, but he remains silent as fear consumes him. He was foolish to give into hope in the first place, Nebula thinks. Perhaps she could have prepared him better for this eventuality by informing him of the limitations that threatened their precarious journey, but she'd reasoned that what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

Fat chance of that now. Escaping reality is no longer an option he can rely on. Unless the  _Benatar_  somehow wills herself back to life, it is very likely they will both die here, alone and undiscovered.

Stark shouldn't even be awake. If he had a modicum of sense, he would be recovering from the injury that almost killed him rather than swanning around the ship; grimacing as pain dogs his every step. It's only been four days since Nebula dug around in his abdomen. She can still intimately recall his scarlet blood spilling over her hands and his valiant – yet fruitless - efforts not to scream as the anaesthetic proved too feeble for their purposes.

Urgency had forced Nebula to ignore his cries. She'd simply set to work fixing him with the same stoicism she adopted whenever her own systems malfunctioned; quickly identifying the bleeding vessels and sealing them one by one, before draining away any blood and gunk remaining in his abdomen. Miraculously, none of his organs were damaged by the blade. That may have been one trial too many for her to handle. She has an innate, extensive knowledge of how to tear a man to pieces, but putting him back together again is another matter entirely.

There'd been a moment – one fleeting moment at the crescendo of her grief – where she'd wondered if it would matter if he died. If letting him bleed out on the table would be kinder given all the anguish the preceding hours had wrought. Under any other circumstances, she doubts she would have batted an eye over throwing one more body onto the ever-growing pile that has followed her since childhood.

The moment had passed almost as quickly as it arose. Watching her only allies – her only  _friends_  - crumble to ash had left Nebula with no more appetite for death. Stark fought by her side. She may not know him, nor can she fully trust him, but he at least has that working in his favour.

An attempt at saving his life was owed.

By the time she finished stitching him back together - finding a certain enjoyment in such a menial task - Stark had long since passed out. Nebula had dutifully cleaned him up and dressed the wound before fetching clean sheets from the bedrooms, aiming to make him as comfortable as possible. The intention was to let him rest and recover while she set about fixing their battered ship. By rights, he should still be lying on the table.

Hel, Nebula should have strapped him down the instant he suggested getting up to help, a mere ten hours after she'd cut him open.

Perhaps it was desperation that forced her to give in to his begging; a growing certainty that if she couldn't stitch the  _Benatar_  back together as well, she'd be stranded on the foul wastes of Titan until the end of her pitiful life. An extra pair of hands had seemed attractive at the time, regardless of the broken body they belonged to. Once her resolve shattered, Nebula had forced tools into Stark's grasp, gesturing towards the faulty navigational equipment with a grunt, and told him to get on with it on the condition that he rest every six hours.

That's a promise he seems to have broken ten times over. Nebula wonders if he's voluntarily slept at all in the many hours since she delivered that ultimatum, though at one point she did find him slumped over the console in a light doze.

Not that it matters anymore. The  _Benatar_ 's death-rattle has seen to that. Their own fates were sealed the instant her engines malfunctioned, or perhaps even as far back as when a moon landed on her. Treating Stark's wound may only have succeeded in buying him a couple of weeks, and Nebula doubts he's going to treat this new development as an excuse to become a model patient. Quite the opposite, most likely.

The ship is quiet. Too quiet. Nebula closes her eyes against the sheer vastness of space and focuses on Stark's rapid breathing before the silence can shatter her ears. Giving up is not an option. She knows that's a reality she'll accept before long; that soon she'll be digging out her tools and tearing the ship apart in the hopes of finding something she can fix. For the moment, however, crushing hopelessness weighs her down to the point where standing is an impossibility, and the only thing preventing her from going mad are Stark's frantic breaths. Every harsh inhale is a solid reminder that she is not alone in the universe quite yet, no matter how close her father has come to sentencing her to that fate.

"What do we do now?" Stark whispers, the words seeming to echo throughout a ship that is now far too empty.

Nebula wishes she knew.

* * *

"This is the  _Benatar_. Our engines have malfunctioned and we have no means of repairing them fully. We are carrying two passengers; neither of us are armed. We are requesting safe passage to the nearest occupied planet. I will send our co-ordinates if you can respond to this message. I repeat, we are not armed..."

Nebula's growing sick of the sound of her own voice. For all that she's grateful to find the comms still operational, the endless spiel she's forced to feed them is almost enough to make her wish they were as broken as everything else. Resorting to the automatic distress signal is beginning to look appealing, though in her experience potential rescuers tend to respond better to a verbal plea for help. Besides, she imagines the galaxy is filled with high-pitched whines from thousands of ships, as their inhabitants struggle to cope with the loss of half their crew.

As the minutes pass, she regurgitates her speech in a monotonous daze. In the immediate aftermath of the  _Benatar_ giving up the ghost, she had tried to convince herself that this was merely another repair-job and that they'd soon be on their way, but diagnostics had made quick work of dashing such hopes. With proper time and equipment, Nebula has no doubt the ship would be salvageable, but with no access to the outer engines there's little she can do while she remains stranded.

Their only hope of survival is rescue. She'll simply have to swallow her pride and deal with that if she has any desire to drive her blade into her father's chest.

"This is the  _Benatar_. Our engines have malfunctioned and we have no means of repairing them fully. We are carrying two passengers; neither of us are armed. We are requesting safe passage to the nearest occupied planet..."

They have resources to last them a couple of weeks. The loss of their main electrical supply means their life-support systems will no longer function indefinitely, but the backup generator should keep them running for upwards of sixteen days. They've lost the ability to recycle oxygen and water from the air, which is what'll probably kill them in the end. Thankfully the Guardians had prepared for the latter by hoarding vast quantities of water – not to mention an impressive collection of Xandarian Ale – so they'll hardly succumb to thirst any time soon.

Nebula wishes they'd been so generous with their foresight where food was concerned. There's certainly enough to last herself and Stark a short while - especially considering the supply was intended to feed six rather than two - but the Guardians' understanding of proper nutrition is woeful. Groot and Quill especially, from what Nebula recalls, tended to survive on snacks alone. There's plenty of food packets that will provide energy for a short while but will do little to chase away hunger, though if they ration carefully it may be possible to draw out their meals for up to three weeks. She supposes she has Gamora to thank for the morsels of meat and fruit scattered among the rest.

Should desperation come calling, Nebula supposes she can suffer through hunger to ensure Stark remains fed. Her cybernetics may not keep her alive forever, but she'll last much longer than he will when starvation becomes inevitable.

"This is the  _Benatar_. Our engines have malfunctioned and we have no means of repairing them fully. We are carrying two passengers; neither of us are armed..."

An involuntary smirk adorns her face as the lie leaves her lips. Between her own weaponry, Stark's battered suit, and the Guardians' extensive stockpile – most of which are explosives forged by Rocket – any potential rescuers will find them hoarding a small arsenal regardless of her empty promises. Of course, that becoming a problem relies on there being any hope of rescue in the first place, and an endless static only serves to hammer home that impossibility.

She doesn't even dare mention her name. The years since her desertion of Thanos have forced her to adopt many aliases as it is, but she can only begin to fathom how essential concealing her identity is now.

She is a daughter of Thanos. Once, that would have made her little more than a distant monster to most, but her father's actions have rendered her a threat by association in the eyes of every survivor. She's a direct link to the creature who stole their loved ones from their arms. Half the universe may now be frightened into immobility by the mere mention of her name, while the other half would crawl through Hel itself to watch her burn.

In the impossible eventuality that help does come for them, there's always the option of fighting should her identity become an issue. There aren't many capable of besting her in combat. Nebula could always slaughter her would-be attackers before their weapons leave their belts, before stealing away their ship in the aftermath of bloodshed.

She has killed people for less. Such ferocity may transform her into a monster in Stark's eyes, but at least then he would know what she is. So long as she delivers him to Terra in one piece, she doubts he'll have reason to complain about her brutality when all is said and done.

"This is the  _Benatar_..."

How many times will she have to utter those words over the coming days, she wonders. How many times will she reach out to a universe that isn't listening, before she caves and activates the distress signal? It feels like she's been sat by the comms unit for days when it can only have been an hour, and already she is sick of the monotony. It only serves to remind her that her chances of survival are miniscule. That she is stranded on a ship that will never fly again, and the only reply she'll ever get to her pleas is the unsympathetic hiss of static.

Someone lesser would crumble under the weight of such despair. A weak individual would shatter when forced to endure the atrocities this week has wrought upon her. Her world was irreparably destroyed the instant Thanos left for Vormir with Gamora in tow, but it seems that even when one has reached rock bottom, there's always room to dig deeper. And here she is, at the end of it all, facing three weeks of dwindling supplies and limited oxygen, with no-one left in the universe to care.

Nebula will not let this break her. She cannot. Nor will she let herself give up entirely; not while Thanos still lives, spiting her with every breath he takes.

Her sister is owed better.

* * *

There's music playing when Nebula returns to the cockpit.

Her initial instinct screams to admonish Stark for wasting time with drivel when there is actual work to be done, but something about the familiar tones stop her in her tracks. The ship has been quiet since they first clambered aboard - far too quiet considering the boisterousness of its prior occupants – and the music only serves to emphasise just how oppressive such silence had been. There's no rumble of engines to latch onto now. No hum of a fully-functioning generator nor the usual symphony of beeps emerging from the cockpit. There isn't even the headache-inducing racket of Rocket and Quill lost in an argument or Groot playing one of his games; noises so predictable, Nebula once dreaded being exposed to them when the Guardians' path crossed with hers.

The music might be the only thing that stops her from slipping into madness in the coming days. Quill would have laughed at that, if he still could.

"I know this song," she says without thinking. Her arrival must have gone unnoticed, for the mere sound of her voice causes Stark to jump with a muffled curse. It would be an amusing sight, if he didn't look like he was wasting away before her eyes. "Gamora liked it, I think."

Stark looks to her with an unreadable softness lurking beneath tired eyes, and for a moment they both simply listen. The melody is rather pleasant, Nebula supposes. It's slow and sweet – a passionate singer reaching out to a lost love – and if the reminder that comes with it wasn't so painful, she might even admit to liking it.

The jolt which grips her chest at the memories it unearths is too agonising, however. All she can see is Gamora offering a hand - swaying slightly to the rhythm - and uttering " _Dance with me?"_ with a challenging lift of her eyebrow.

Nebula had refused, the specific lull that came with music still foreign to her. If Gamora was disappointed by the biting retort of  _"I don't dance,"_  she hadn't shown it, however. Instead, she'd smiled with a fondness Nebula had rarely glimpsed since childhood, and admitted,  _"Neither did I, once upon a time."_

How long ago had that been? A year? Two? Their encounters had grown increasingly frequent once Ego's demise brought them together, though now Nebula wishes she'd found more excuses to join her sister over the years. Perhaps, if given the chance to see Gamora one last time, she would take her up on her offer and dance clumsily in her arms; suffering in quiet humiliation, but no doubt gleaning some warmth from the joy in her sister's smile.

Or perhaps the opposite would have been better. If they were still constantly at each other's throats - convinced that hatred burned at the centre of their relationship rather than love - Gamora may well have concealed the Soul Stone's location while Nebula screamed in agony. Her foolish actions borne of love and loyalty to her sister may never have transpired, and both Gamora and the universe would be alive and whole. No doubt Nebula would die once Thanos grew tired of tearing her apart, but such a fate would be infinitely better than her current circumstances.

Trillions have died as an indirect consequence of her survival. Because Gamora loved her too much to watch her suffer.

Nebula wonders if she'll ever come to terms with that.

"Do you want me to turn it off?" Stark asks, almost hesitantly, and Nebula wonders how much pain he can glimpse beneath her mask. She'd been better at concealing it once.

"No," she admits, frowning as the answer surprises even her. Still, the music itself is little more than background noise, and while the memories it carries may bring only pain, it's nothing compared to the crushing stillness that will replace it when it's gone.

All too aware that she's been standing still as a mannequin for far too long, Nebula finally drags herself over to sit by Stark's side. The quantity of screaming red lights on the console has lessened somewhat since her last check; either his efforts have fixed a fraction of their problems, or the tiny bulbs have given up as well.

"What have you done so far?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Stark admits, leaning back with a sigh and wiping sweat from his brow. He's too pale under the artificial lights for comfort, and Nebula doesn't miss the trembling in his hands when they return to his lap. "The navigational systems are back online, but we're eons away from the nearest occupied planet. Life support systems might last us a couple of weeks but not much longer. We have fuel, but the engines are beyond repair so we can't use it. Only thing I could completely figure out is that ancient music-player."

He gestures to the tiny device, currently linked up to a myriad of wires connecting it to the speakers. Rocket's handiwork presumably, given how unnecessarily messy the set-up appears. As much as Nebula never expected to miss that rotten creature, she can't help but wonder if their situation would be so desperate with him present. What she's gathered in technical know-how over the years, Rocket has double in imagination. She could benefit from the latter in this instance.

"The comms are functional," she says, only to regret it instantly when hope flares in Stark's eyes. "Not that it makes a difference. There's no-one out there to hear us."

"We don't know that," Stark contends, refusing to wither when Nebula shoots him a glare. "All it takes is one ship passing our way. Someone will find us."

Nebula doesn't bother pointing out that if there  _are_  ships passing so close to this cursed wasteland of a system, they'll probably have little intention of helping.

"You should rest," she insists, for what feels like the thousandth time since she stitched him back together. With the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and the grey tinge marring his complexion, Stark looks half a corpse already. If he works himself to death then Nebula truly will be alone in the universe, and she doesn't want to know what that pain will turn her into. Stark is little more than a stranger insistent on trying his luck, but having him is better than having nobody and stewing in her grief alone.

It is a shame then, that he seems in such a hurry to die.

"Can't. Too much left to do," Stark dismisses her with unthinking ease, and white-hot anger threatens to grab her by the throat. To his credit, he must notice his slight, for one look in her direction is enough to transform his defiance into apologetic sheepishness. "Please stop looking at me like you want to stick another knife in me."

"Keep disobeying me and maybe I will!" she snaps. Part of her thinks she might even be serious. "You should-"

"I  _can't_ _!_ " Stark retorts with a ferocity that seems to surprise even him, his screwdriver falling from a trembling hand and clattering to the floor.

For a moment everything stops. The only sounds are Stark's heaving breaths - requiring more effort than they should - and an inappropriately upbeat song playing over the speakers. A sliver of irritation itches beneath Nebula's skin, but she suppresses it as she regards Stark with the same detached curiosity she's aimed at many of her victims. In the brief time she's known him, he has never seemed quite so...  _alive_. A fight still lurks within his veins. It just might save his life, if he can suppress that damned self-destructive streak of his.

When he speaks once more, the fight is gone. All that's left is a broken whisper, but the echo of that fire lingers long enough for Nebula to hang onto every word.

"Every time I close my eyes, all I see is the kid..."

He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, but then, he doesn't need to. Nebula saw the boy cling to life just long enough for terror to consume him, before he too faded like the rest. She still doesn't know who he was to Stark. No doubt she'll never truly know, but if Gamora's loss is what threatens to drown her should she dwell on it, the child's death seems to be just as destructive to Stark.

"You can't avenge him if you're dead," she tells him plainly.

That's all they have left now. Half the universe is dead. The only person she's ever loved is gone and she doesn't even know if there's anything left to bury. And now Stark has his own reasons to wish never-ending pain upon her father. Vengeance may be a bitter motivator, but it's kept her alive when many have died around her, and if they need to rely on it to stay alive now then so be it.

A sad smile reaches Stark's face while tears gather in his eyes, though he seems determined not to let them fall. His attention shifts beyond the window to the bleak nothingness surrounding them; distant stars acting as a beacon they remain incapable of following. Nebula wonders where Terra is, out there beyond their black canvas. Is that where Stark's looking now? His eyes drawn towards a home he will never see again, no matter how many hours they devote to trying to fix their broken ship?

She wonders what it must be like to have a home worth missing.

"The way things are looking, I don't think there's gonna be a lot of avenging," Stark admits, though if the prospect scares him he doesn't show it.

A private smile pulls at his lips before he can school his expression into neutrality, and he drops his gaze to rub at tired eyes. If that action serves to wipe away his tears as well, he gives no indication of it when he looks back to Nebula with a weak grin.

They remain in relative silence for a moment, forced to endure each other's company yet finding little reason to complain. Nebula looks to the stars once more, trying to pretend that the universe is as peaceful as her view would make it seem, and not crying out in agony as a result of her father's actions. She supposes that's one small mercy to them being stranded; she won't be forced to witness the fallout of her unforgivable failure.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Stark regard the scattered tools around him, along with the myriad of tasks still lying in wait, before sighing and leaning back in his chair. It seems he's come to the conclusion that her persistent order to rest may not be entirely unfounded. Sure enough, when he speaks, it's with the air of a man admitting defeat.

"You'll wake me after an hour?" he asks, a silent plea buried in his gaze.

"Three," she insists, in a tone which leaves little room for argument. Stark must sense he's on the losing side of this battle, for he clamps his mouth shut and manages the energy for a single, consenting nod. "You have my word."

That assurance is all Stark needs. He heaves a sigh, as though finally letting himself acknowledge his exhaustion, and rises to his feet with painstaking effort. His eyes clench shut, and Nebula can't mistake the pained hiss that escapes through gritted teeth. A traitorous hand comes to rest atop his wound before he lets it drop, as though shamed by the brief display of weakness.

If he expects Nebula to chastise him, he's sorely mistaken. She knows a thing or two about pain. Enough to know that there are times where even the most stoic soldier cannot hide it, and Stark is far from stoic at the best of times. She takes comfort in his quick recovery – paying attention just long enough to watch him limp to the refuge of a bed – before casting him from her mind as she returns to the issues at hand.

The work that still needs to be done feels monumental. Red flashes signifying areas in need of attention mock her with a merciless fervour as she casts her gaze over the console; dutifully ignoring the weariness clawing at her own eyes in favour of assessing her priorities. The backup life-support systems are fully operational – a small mercy considering nothing else on this blasted ship seems to be – though she knows that won't last. There's no way to make them last forever, much as she wishes she could. However, if she can keep the ship from falling apart entirely, she may be able to buy time for a miraculous solution to arise regarding their battered engines and relative lack of fuel. At the very least, there may be a possibility of salvaging a few precious days of oxygen; days in which potential rescuers just might stumble upon their transmissions and nobly answer their call.

It's a fool's hope. Nebula isn't fond of surrendering to hope at the best of times. In the absence of other viable options, however, she simply swallows her pride and brings up the diagnostic reports, poring over the data and assessing the vast quantity of repairs that need doing.

She doesn't even get the opportunity to make a start. Her musings are interrupted by a loud crash from deep within the ship, and she's on her guard in an instant. Making an effort to bury the concern tightening her throat, she hastily frees herself from the cockpit and follows the direction of the noise; the silence left in its wake sending unease thrumming beneath synthetic skin. Deep down, she already knows what she's likely to find, but that doesn't make her eventual discovery any less disheartening.

It takes the sight of a motionless Stark splayed inelegantly on the floor to assure her that no matter how hopeless her situation may seem, there's always room for everything to get worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments, kudos or bookmarks on this story so far! I hope you enjoy this chapter and will try to post the next one as soon as I can.

She'd tried to avoid this.

Once it became clear Nebula needed to fix Stark's wound herself or watch him bleed to death, she'd set about her task with regimented precision. Her hands were scrubbed until the metal shone and the flesh was raw, and despite Stark's bitten-back cries, she'd cleaned his wound thoroughly before assaulting it further. The Guardians didn't leave much in the way of medical supplies, but she'd used what she had to the best of her ability; cleaning each implement before use and administering Terran anti-infectant agents into Stark's veins without a second thought.

One can only make an environment so sterile, however. No degree of precautions was ever going to render the Benatar an ideal place for surgery. The evidence of that is practically screaming at her. The med-scanner in her hand seems to relish in the fact that all of Stark's vital parameters are outwith normal range; his heart rate too high, his blood pressure too low, his temperature considerably higher than is healthy for Terrans. Even his breathing is too rapid, to top it all off.

Even without the numbers, she can see she's out of her depth. Hoisting Stark's unresponsive form to the makeshift operating-table in the Benatar's hub had assured her of that. His eventual awakening had provided little comfort, considering his protests regarding her rough handling were belittled, somewhat, by the fire radiating from his skin. As suspected, removing his dressings had revealed an angry redness reaching far beyond the borders of a weeping wound; the area tender and rigid even to light touch, with the slightest pressure eliciting a sharp hiss. The thin layer of sweat soaking Stark's skin seems more prominent now that Nebula takes real notice of it, and all she can focus on is his scarred chest, requiring more effort to take in each breath than it should.

Nebula should have seen the signs before now. Perhaps she had, and she'd simply trusted Stark to tell her if something was wrong.

She's learning that trusting Stark to look after his own self-interests is a lost cause.

"How bad is it?" he asks, eyes glazed and unfocused as he struggles to look at her. There's an air of dejection that suggests he knows precisely how bad it is and has done for a while; that he's simply been waiting for the axe to fall on his head while making little attempt to thwart it. Nebula wants to scream at him for being so foolish, but submitting to fury will not help matters.

"I've seen worse," she admits, forcing herself into a state of calm that manages to be somewhat convincing. The voice that escapes her sounds cold and empty, more so than usual, but it's assurance enough that she won't let her fear shine through.

A sense of duty washes over her, just as it had when she first tended to Stark's wound. It'll need cleaning and re-dressed, and the inflammation will require close monitoring to ensure it doesn't spread over the coming days. Their supply of anti-infectants is limited and may not even be appropriate for this infection, but there's enough to make do and help him fight the initial wave at least.

Wordlessly, Nebula stalks towards the supply cupboard and gathers what she needs, before setting to work with a grim determination; cleaning Stark's wound thoroughly and tuning out the noise as he groans under his breath. Once the antiseptic wipes have been discarded, she delicately applies new dressings and binds them tightly so as to leave little room for further corruption.

Stark watches her through glassy eyes as she works, though she pays him little mind. With time, she learns to think of him as nothing more than a project. Something to fix and put back together, before an all-powerful force can shatter him to dust and bone. He doesn't even flinch when a vial of anti-infectant is injected into a promising vein, but considering that only makes Nebula's job easier, she sets concern aside and keeps working until there's nothing more to be done.

"Drink," she insists finally, thrusting a glass of water in Stark's face so as to leave little room for argument. "And keep drinking. You're dehydrated."

The order startles him from a fevered reverie. For a moment his eyes betray a concerning lack of recognition, before his brows furrow and he shakes his head in protest.

"Shouldn't," he mutters under his breath, and Nebula has half a mind to slap him if doing so will instil some sense. "We barely have enough as it is."

"We have enough to last us three weeks," she reminds him, though she doubts he's forgotten. All the tallies she's carried out have no doubt been performed by him as well, with the same hopeless conclusions having been drawn. "If we haven't been found by then, we'll die anyway and your pathetic need to be selfless won't matter. Now drink."

Stark's face twists with a childish wilfulness, as though Nebula were a stern mother forcing him to drink bitter medicine. Her blood boils and the temptation to force the water down his throat starts to sound appealing, though she imagines he would choke on it if she dared. That momentary sensation of drowning followed by undignified spluttering would certainly teach him a lesson, however.

Calm returns soon enough. Stark seems to be sane enough to admit he's fighting a losing battle, and any reluctance is set aside as he feebly takes the water and brings it to his lips. That first taste must awaken a buried thirst, for his eyes close in relief and he manages a couple of healthy gulps before setting aside the glass.

"You can be cold sometimes," Stark grumbles, regarding her with a raised eyebrow and the most awareness he's had since the fever took hold. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Once or twice," she concedes, a smirk pulling at her lips and betraying her amusement. Somehow, she doubts he'd be so bold if he knew half of what her coldness had wrought. "Most don't live long enough to mention it."

There's a beat in which he seems to consider whether or not to believe her; his own smirk fading as he regards her with a newfound scrutiny. If his silent assessment draws any conclusions, however, it seems he'd rather not have them confirmed.

Satisfied that there's little more she can do, Nebula collapses onto a chair – all notion of work abandoned – and fights off the sleep pulling at her own eyes as she watches Stark's flutter in their exhaustion.

"Rest," she says, adopting as stern an expression as she can muster when tired eyes turn towards her. "I mean it this time."

"The ship-"

"Will still be here when you wake," she assures him. Any impending repairs can wait. They both need to rest, though Nebula must confess to a hypocritical reluctance as she resists her own weariness.

All fight has left Stark, regardless. It only takes a moment for his laboured breathing to settle into a more restful pattern, his eyes drifting shut as illness finally forces sleep upon him. He still looks terrible. His skin is paper-white and soaked with sweat, and even in the throes of unconsciousness he never appears particularly restful; an echo of pain pulling at his brow more than once while the odd twitch rocks his body. Part of Nebula wonders if she should resign herself to the merciless task of watching over him while he sleeps, for fear she won't find him alive upon waking from her own slumber.

The notion leaves her before it can take hold, however, for she too is carried away; lulled by the quiet of the ship and a sweet song she barely knows.

* * *

Two hours of fitful sleep are all she manages. She supposes she should be grateful for that much considering it's all she's had in days, but any lingering restfulness is quickly abandoned as worry takes hold. It takes a moment to realise precisely what it was that woke her, but when full consciousness does return, it brings with it the grim realisation that Stark's breathing is worse.

Nebula sits up and casts her eye over his still-sleeping form with clinical detachedness. Every breath he manages seems to take enormous effort, as though a colossal weight is pressed against his ribs, and his chest shudders with every high-pitched exhale. His cheeks are flushed, though the rest of him is grey under the overhead lights, and his clothes seem welded to his body by sweat alone. Nebula extends the hand which remains flesh and bone to his forehead, frowning at the heat pouring off him. It's clear that whatever treatment she's given hasn't been enough. Not yet anyway.

She buries her concern in an instant, surrendering once again to duty as she salvages more medicine from the pitiful selection the Guardians have left her. There's nothing she can do for Stark's breathing. If the infection has spread, she can only hope the injections will be sufficient to fight it, as her search for oxygen masks ultimately turns up empty. There's little she can give for pain either, unless she wants him sedated on top of everything else. While the thought is tempting, she would rather he retained what little consciousness he has rather than have it stolen away when he so desperately needs to fight.

In the end, Nebula returns to his side with little more than what she left him with. Buried in the cupboard, behind a device that looked suspiciously like a bomb, she'd discovered a vial promising broader action than the prior dose of medicine, though knowing her luck it's probably just as useless. She injects it anyway, throwing caution to the wind. The prick of the needle causes Stark's eyes to flutter, though he offers little more in the way of resistance. Nebula takes advantage of this brief moment of wakefulness to gently ease water to his lips, managing to encourage a few small sips before he weakly pushes her away and settles back into sleep.

There's little else for her to do after that. Logic tells her she should return to work. That there is no benefit in staying by Stark's side like a weeping mother when she has already done all she can. The fight is his now. Whether he lives or dies is in his hands and his alone. Besides, even if he survives this onslaught, it will be for nothing if she can't get the ship up and running.

And yet, as the passing minutes slowly drag into hours, Nebula remains by his side. Any motivation to work seemingly abandoned her the instant Stark decided to collapse, and she doubts she'll be able to focus on repairs while he remains in such a state. Perhaps she'd be better utilised sitting by the comms, awaiting incoming transmissions from non-existent rescuers, but she thinks she would rather stick pins in her ears than listen to that piercing static again. Stark's ragged breaths are hardly an improvement, but at least they serve as weak assurance that he still lives.

He tends to drift in and out of the present, with periods of wakefulness lasting maybe fifteen minutes at most. There's a significant difference between consciousness and awareness that makes him rather poor company; his unseeing eyes occasionally wander in Nebula's direction but never truly acknowledge her presence. For the most part, he merely suffers through a fitful slumber, with the occasional whimper implying that dreams provide little escape from the pain.

Nebula falls into a pseudo-routine in order to feel even remotely useful. Every hour she'll wake Stark just long enough to let a few drops of water pass his lips, before letting him drift off again. Every two hours, she runs the med-scanner over his docile form and frowns as the numbers show little improvement. Once six hours have elapsed, she injects another dose of anti-infectant and tries not to dwell on the ever-dwindling supply. The cycle continues, over and over without an end in sight, though deep down she knows that the longer he hangs on, the greater his chances. If he survives the first twenty-four hours it is likely he'll recover, but it promises to be an excruciating twenty-four hours.

Stark isn't always silent company. While his brief episodes of wakefulness tend to be characterised by staring vacantly at overhead lights, occasionally he will rouse just fully enough to mumble confused nothings or half-formed musings. For the most part, Nebula dismisses such ramblings as the words of a sick man without a filter. Once or twice she finds her ears pricking up, however. A word here or there will force her to pay attention – her father's name emerges from dry lips once or twice – and on one particular occasion the thoughts preying on Stark's mind seem to be particularly distressing.

"Pete..." he utters on a breathy whisper, the name repeated over and over like a mantra for close to five minutes. Nebula frowns in recognition, though the only 'Pete' she knows is Quill. Somehow, she doubts that's who Stark is referring to, if the unshed tears gathering in bloodshot eyes are any indication. "...Shouldn't have been there. Should have been home..."

Ah. The boy, most likely. He's the only person in Nebula's sphere of awareness who Stark feels any personal responsibility over. No doubt the fever ravaging his brain has heightened his sense of loss and guilt, though on the latter front the blame can hardly be placed upon Stark's shoulders. If anything, Nebula holds more responsibility. If she hadn't failed her mission to kill Thanos all those weeks ago, the Soul Stone would remain undiscovered and her father would never have had the means to enact his genocide.

"There's nothing more you could have done," she tells Stark plainly, aiming for reassurance though her voice sounds so lifeless to her ears that the effect falls flat. "You couldn't have saved him."

Life seems to return to Stark at the sound of another voice. His brow furrows in confusion and his head turns towards Nebula with tortuous slowness, though when his eyes finally find her through what must be a thick haze, there's little trace of recognition.

"Pepper?"

There's so much hope behind that one word that Nebula almost feels guilty for not knowing what it means. Instead of saying as much, she elects to say nothing at all; remaining still in the hopes that Stark will return to his current surroundings before long.

Sure enough, after a moment in which Stark's eyes seem to be dissecting her, he shakes his head with what may be disappointment.

"No, you're not her. She's probably-"

He catches himself quickly, breath halting in his chest and his head shaking minutely as a new, horrifying possibility grabs hold of his brain. Nebula thinks she understands where this is going, though that doesn't make the growing terror in Stark's voice any more bearable to hear. "No, she can't be. Not her too, I can't..."

Without thinking, Nebula grabs his hand with the cool metal of her own, and the shock has the desired effect of snapping him out of his thoughts. His eyes latch onto her with more recollection than he's demonstrated in hours, and he takes a steadying breath as one lone tear slips down a pale cheek.

"Who is she?" Nebula asks, feigning curiosity in the hopes that it will encourage Stark to stay with her a little longer.

"Pep?" he asks, and Nebula nods. It takes a while for an answer to formulate beyond a weak smile and closed eyes, and for a moment she fears she's lost him again. When the answer does come it's barely louder than a breath, but there's an unmistakable fondness in his tone all the same. "She's the best."

It's not much of an answer at all, but somehow Nebula doubts she needs to hear more.

Stark's lucky. In spite of all he's lost, he still has someone worth crawling home to – assuming the snap hasn't stolen this 'Pepper' away too. Ignorance is bliss, however. So long as they remain stranded millions of miles from Terra, Stark has the option of clinging to hope that the person he loves still breathes; that she's looking out to the stars and awaiting his return.

"Rest," Nebula says with an uncharacteristic softness, bringing a hand to his forehead to smooth the creases buried there. "You'll be home with her soon."

It's not a promise she can keep, but it's one that seems to provide comfort nonetheless. He fights the closure of his eyelids for only a moment before leaving her alone once again, and Nebula finds herself falling into her chair with an exhaustion of her own.

She must drift at some point as monotony overwhelms her. When she returns to the present, feeling no better for having left it, she finds Stark alert once again.

He seems calmer this time around. No frantic whisperings pass his lips, though his eyes still wander aimlessly in search of something Nebula can't comprehend. His breathing seems easier at least. Each inhale is too rapid and shallow to be comforting, but he no longer appears to be fighting a crushing weight with every gulp of air. There's an occasional gasp as his lungs protest against the tiny volumes each regular breath draws in, but they're few and far between and Nebula can't summon the energy to worry about them.

"Oh," Stark perks up eventually, making an effort to lift his head, before it gracelessly collapses back onto the pillow. Undeterred, he turns away from Nebula to face the cockpit, though what exactly has captured his attention remains unclear until he finally acknowledges it. "The music. 's Floyd."

Nebula had barely noticed there was still music playing. It's simply become background noise by this point; their distance from the cockpit having muted it to the point where she doesn't mind its presence. She's surprised Stark can comprehend it, given that he only seems to have one toe dipped in reality at any given moment, but the melodies streaming through seem familiar enough to break him from his funk.

"Listening to 'Dark Side of the Moon' in space..." he whispers, the words apparently not intended for anyone besides himself. A weak laugh bursts from him only to be replaced by a ragged cough, but he recovers quickly enough that Nebula feels no urge to help. Stark seems unfazed regardless, if the lingering smile adorning his face is any indication. "Suppose there are worse ways to go."

 _'You're not going to die'_ refuses to pass Nebula's lips, much as she wishes she could voice the words with conviction. She's already made plenty of promises she cannot keep; it seems appropriate that the most egregious one is the one she cannot bear to speak.

The words would likely fall on deaf ears anyway. Stark keeps his head tilted in the vague direction of the dream-like music, allowing it to wash over him a moment longer, but soon enough he's lulled back into slumber. Nebula watches over him just long enough to be satisfied that this isn't the end of him – not yet – before closing her eyes. A headache threatens at the back of her skull. Too many hours of inactivity and lack of sleep are taking their toll, but she disregards her traitorous body and fights the oncoming pain by focusing on the distant melodies Stark seemed so enchanted by.

There is something pleasing about this particular music, in comparison to the songs she tends to associate with Quill. The melody is gentle and lilting, with a warmth that feels like coming home to a loved one's embrace. Even the voices are pleasant; soft and sweet and blending with the music so fluidly they may as well be instruments themselves. It's not a style she can imagine Quill enjoying. There's no invitation to dance and sing; no beat to encourage someone to prance around like an idiot, or even tap their feet should the inclination arise.

Gamora would have liked it though. That much is certain. Nebula can picture her sister sat by the window, lost in thought and watching the stars go by, letting the music engulf her as she hums under her breath. The image is so perfect that it aches, and when Nebula casts her eyes to the window only to see it barren, the phantom sting of tears plagues her eyes. She couldn't cry even if she wanted to. Thanos stole that ability from her long ago, but she remembers what it felt like well enough. Perhaps she'd even let the tears fall if she still could.

There's hardly anyone left alive who could berate her for doing so.

* * *

Halfway through day two, improvement finally starts to make itself known.

For the first time since the infection announced itself, Stark manages a few hours of sleep that genuinely seems restful. The frequency of pained grunts lessens with each passing hour and Nebula watches with renewed interest as his breathing approaches a normal rate. A high-pitched wheeze still lingers now and then, but it's nothing compared to the gasps she's become accustomed to hearing, and every check of the scanner shows vitals which are finally returning to normality.

After what must be close to forty-eight hours since she last checked, she delicately removes the dressings and indulges in a thrill of satisfaction upon noting the inflammation has dwindled. Fiery heat and reddened skin continue to linger around the wound itself, and Nebula takes great care to clean the area as a precaution, but the spread has gone down significantly.

A localised wound infection is a much simpler affair than the widespread monster that threatened to ravish Stark's body only hours prior. Nebula tends to it dutifully, replacing the dressings with sterile bandages and delivering another dose of medicine to aid him further into recovery. Though she knows the danger is hardly gone, she feels like she can breathe for the first time since he collapsed.

When he next comes to, it's with an alertness that suggests the fog of sickness has left him. Bright eyes crawl open only to cringe at the overhead lights. A clumsy hand is brought to his face to wipe away the last traces of sleep, and he makes an attempt to sit up which almost promises to be successful, before ultimately deciding against the idea. A groan leaves his throat unbidden, and he licks dry lips with an air of disgust before feebly gesturing to the fresh glass of water by his side.

Nebula obliges, bringing the cool drink to his mouth and smirking as all restraint leaves him. The water vanishes in less than a minute as he gulps it down a parched throat, his eyes closing in relief and a weak smile pulling at his lips.

"Ugh," he groans, bringing a hand to rest over his bandaged stomach once the glass is set aside. "That was unpleasant."

"It was," Nebula agrees. The sound of her voice finally forces Stark to acknowledge her, and she resists the urge to squirm under a gaze that seems to have regained the intensity the fever stole away. He appears to recognise her at least, and there's a glint in his eyes that might be amusement buried beneath an echo of pain. Nebula brings a hand to his forehead out of some childish need for reassurance, and sure enough the skin beneath her touch has finally cooled.

The worst is over. He will survive another day at least.

Nebula can't promise anything beyond that, but she feels content all the same.

"The next time you feel like courting death," she continues, not bothering to conceal a trace of irritation from her tone. "Warn me first."

Stark lets out a surprised laugh which quickly turns into a groan as the action disturbs his wound. The pain seems to pass in an instant though. Either that or he's as much of an expert at hiding it as she is. His eyes soften with what might be an unspoken apology – though Nebula doubts he truly regrets concealing his illness for so long – and he manages a weak nod that will have to suffice for now.

"I'll do my best."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd hoped to finish this installment earlier, but a combination of life and Eurovision ruined those plans. Thankfully the first draft of the next chapter is complete so the wait for that one should be shorter!
> 
> Thank you again for your lovely response to this story! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Stark remains bedridden for a further four days.

To his credit, he endures the boredom of the first two days admirably. The lingering aftershocks of infection likely play a major role in that. He spends a significant portion of those forty-eight hours in slumber, and on the rare occasions where nature forces him to leave his bed, he stumbles like a waddling child, relying on any support he can reach. By the end of day one, he's demonstrated enough improvement that Nebula feels little remorse in leaving his side in favour of work; the pressure of three wasted days finally too much to bear. She limits her caregiving role to administering a daily dose of anti-infectant, before leaving Stark with enough food and water to last him throughout the day. The latter point is the source of much contention; Stark feebly insists that she leaves him with too much in the face of what little they have, while Nebula demands – with no room for argument – that he eat the whole lot, unless he wants to stall his recovery in its tracks.

Such debates are constant and tiresome, but she has yet to lose one. It would seem Stark's stubbornness is no longer so all-consuming that it interferes with common sense. Or perhaps hunger is as vicious a motivator as any, for whenever Nebula returns to his side, only crumbs remain from the meal she laid out.

Days three and four are more challenging. All yearning for sleep finally leaves Stark after countless hours spent amongst feverish dreams, and in its place comes the desire to work. More than once, Nebula's forced to point out that he's too weak to be anything more than a hindrance, and his fatuous arguments to the contrary do little to convince her otherwise. He does look slightly healthier, to his credit. Colour has finally returned to his face, replacing the transparent grey tones she's grown accustomed to seeing. The shadows beneath his eyes are no longer so prominent and he is no longer wracked by harsh gasps and weak twitches. No doubt he could, in theory, be of some use if Nebula were to surrender to his pleas, but she holds firm regardless. Once or twice she even drags him back to bed without a word, willfully tuning out his incessant whines.

Boredom is the most likely culprit behind his desperation. Now that sleep is less readily available, all Stark has to keep him company is music and Nebula's mostly-silent presence. He may not be back to full health, but by the midpoint of day four the scanner declares him free from danger, and the prospect of halting his bedrest is one Nebula is forced to consider.

If times were less desperate, she might have insisted Stark remain out-of-service for at least a week. That always seemed to be the optimum time-frame in Gamora's mind whenever Quill got himself injured, which was quite often.

Time is not a luxury Nebula has, however. With each day that passes, they draw closer to the point where their oxygen will run out and their daily rations will become incompatible with normal functioning. She has already wasted enough time as it is caring for Stark. There's only so much she can fix on her own, especially when the ship seems to have made a hobby out of malfunctioning.

Stark is an engineer, or so he says. Much as Nebula hates to admit it, she could really use his help.

Ultimately, in what feels uncomfortably like a surrender, she shoves a handful of tools in Stark's face on Day Five and orders him to get on with it. There's a hesitation in his eyes as he ponders whether or not to believe her, but he takes the proffered implements without question and slowly drags himself over to their makeshift workstation in the cockpit.

There's an unsteadiness to his gait as he walks. He closes his eyes once or twice and visibly winces as he lowers himself to the ground, no doubt due to lancing pain from his wound. Nebula watches as he sets to work with a fierce scrutiny, weighing up every tremble of his hands; every marker of pain he betrays. An internal battle wages as she considers the benefits of changing her mind and dragging him back to safety versus the need for an extra pair of hands.

Such notions are quickly discarded. Stark has likely recovered about as fully as he ever will, given the limitations of medical-care on offer. If she cannot accept his capabilities as they are now, she will never consider him worthy of helping.

Such fussiness will bring them no closer to Earth.

* * *

 

For sanity's sake, Nebula formulates a daily routine to add structure to an existence which otherwise has none. Four hours are set aside for her own rest, while she assigns Stark six hours minimum; hushing him with a silent glare when he tries to negotiate for less. When she wakes, she takes it upon herself to sort out the rations for the upcoming day. Formulating a semi-nutritious intake from the Guardians' supply is an unenviable task, but she surmises she has enough for at least seven days of proper meals. Beyond that, they'll simply be living off snacks and going hungry to make the supplies last, but she supposes that's better than nothing.

One hour is spent by the comms, with Nebula and Stark taking turns each day to appeal to a universe that isn't listening.

Whatever time remains is spent on repairs. Such work has the potential to be particularly thankless, considering what they're capable of fixing isn't enough to get the ship up and running. The  _Benatar_  is so battered they barely succeed in fixing one thing before diagnostics identifies two other systems in need of urgent attention. Despite the endless nature of it all, Nebula imagines the constant workload is the only thing keeping herself and Stark sane. No repairs would mean having nothing to do besides slowly rot or dwell on their mortality, and she thinks the boredom alone would drive one of them to kill the other before long.

Though he never says as much, it quickly becomes clear that Stark's least favourite part of their routine is - unfortunately for him - the most necessary.

As each day passes and he becomes stronger, his tolerance for Nebula's assessments dwindle significantly. On her initial checks - where he was docile and weak as a kitten - he would simply look elsewhere while she sterilised and redressed the wound; occasionally expressing his distaste with a wince, but little more.

The more he recovers, however, the more she almost wishes he would return to his bedridden state. Getting him to lie down long enough for her to scan him is a thankless chore as it is, and that's before she's ordered him to remove his shirt. Her attempts to clean the wound are often hampered as he writhes and grits his teeth, and she has to wrestle to keep him still for the most part. By her third attempt – the one where she finally snaps and threatens to strap him down - she finds herself landed with the title of 'Blue Meanie'.

It's a rather feeble nickname with little malice behind it, but having it directed her way on a constant basis grows rather tiresome.

The worst is when the time comes to remove his stitches. Stark's language becomes so colourful that not even her translator can interpret most of it, though he at least has the presence of mind not to direct his ire at her. His momentary agony turns out to be worthwhile anyway. When he finally stays still long enough to undergo a scan, the device in Nebula's hands cheerfully declares him free of infection after a long and trying ten days. His sigh of utter relief at the news implies Nebula's forgiven for her less-than-gentle bedside manner.

"Sorry for being a pain in the ass," Stark tells her as he rises from the table for what she hopes is the last time.

Nebula can't quite contain a smirk as the words  _'Too little, too late'_  flit through her mind, though she refrains from voicing them. Illness can do strange things to people. So long as Stark's days of making her existence a constant headache are over, she's willing to forgive him for being a nuisance. Her experiences with the Guardians have taught her some patience, if nothing else.

"I've dealt with worse," she admits with a shrug, not bothering to look Stark's way as she utters the words. Expecting no further reply, she packs up her medical supplies and puts them away for the last time. There's no reason for the infection to recur, and with the corruption gone his wound has healed nicely. If he  _is_  going to die on this ship, the wound dealt by her father will not be the culprit.

Admittedly, that knowledge brings little consolation considering they wouldn't be stranded in the first place if Thanos hadn't thrown a moon in the direction of their ship.

Upon returning to Stark's side, she finally brings herself to meet his gaze, only to be taken aback by his sincerity. Initially she had taken his apology to be semi-serious in his usual, self-deprecating manner, but his eyes are telling a different story.

"All the same," he says quietly, dropping his gaze as though shamed. He opens his mouth to say something else, before shaking his head and limping to his abandoned work-station. Presumably he's asserted – correctly – that his meek apology has already sufficed.

It only occurs to Nebula later, as she watches the stars during her hours of rest, that Stark's solemn apology is about as close to a 'thank you' as she'll ever get.

* * *

It becomes clear that, once the fog of pain and illness has lifted, Stark is a talker.

Perhaps he fears the silence will break him if he doesn't fill it. At first his running commentary simply consists of describing his work with little regard for Nebula's response - or lack thereof. He speaks as though to an audience, leaving deliberate silences in anticipation of interruptions that will never come. The word 'Friday' escapes him once or twice, and Nebula occasionally spots him casting glances towards his damaged suit, but she neglects to mention it.

Just as she neglects to dwell on the sorrow that settles in his eyes whenever the silence persists.

As more time passes, he starts telling stories of home. He talks of his 'Pepper'; painting her as a formidable woman with a heart of gold who - in his words - is completely out of his league. He talks of the lost boy in happier times, though his underlying pride can't disguise the tremble in his voice. He talks of best friends simply referred to as 'Rhodey' and 'Happy' and how he longs to see them again. With every hour that passes, more characters enter the mix, until Nebula thinks she could list off every man, woman and child Stark has ever interacted with.

Not that she ever complains. Interjections on her part are far and few between – her interest in Stark's life can only go so far – but it's much more pleasant to focus on a universe beyond their confines than it is to acknowledge their crushing isolation.

Nebula doesn't contribute many of her own experiences. There's a dearth of pleasant stories in her history as it is. Considering most of them concern herself and Gamora in recent years, she imagines sharing her memories will simply deepen a wound that is already agonising. Whenever Stark inquires about her life beyond this blasted ship, deflection becomes a key strategy. She'll retain just enough minor details from his own stories to encourage him to delve deeper, until any question aimed in her direction is ultimately forgotten.

Stark isn't an idiot. She can see in his eyes that he knows what game she's playing, but he has the grace not to pry further.

Besides, soon enough she finds her shell cracking without needing to be prompted.

She never shares anything too detailed. Her memories are all she has left in the universe, and the most precious among them will remain forever guarded. Occasionally a song will remind her of the Guardians, however, and she'll find herself bemoaning Quill's constant dancing. Stark's accounts of trying to keep Peter in line – a supposedly impossible task when it comes to Terran youngsters – remind her of Groot as he approached adolescence, to the point where she can hear echoes of Rocket's reprimands resonating within the ship. She even brings up Gamora once or twice, though never for very long, and she tends to become unusually fixated on the wires in her lap whenever her sister is mentioned.

If Stark notices her discomfort, he has the grace not to mention it. If anything, he tends to use those moments as an excuse to veer the subject elsewhere. Nebula would thank him for that if the notion didn't make her feel so pathetic.

They never bring up Thanos in their conversations. Not even the Snap gets a passing mention. People who have been dead for weeks get spoken about in present-tense as if they're still alive and kicking; an ignorant eavesdropper could well surmise that the universe is entirely at peace and undisturbed.

It's an unconscious phenomenon. Neither she nor Stark comment on the unspoken denial that has settled over them, as though fearful of breaking a comforting spell. Given that none of their repairs bring them any closer to flying home, she supposes indulging in fantasies will do them no harm in the long run.

The alternative means having to watch Stark despair over the possibility that the people he loves could now be nothing but ash. For the sake of their sanity, Nebula would rather they didn't surrender to realism.

A by-product of this attitude is that their conversation eventually veers towards what they'll do if they are rescued. What will happen if Stark does return to Earth and everyone he loves is miraculously unharmed? What will Nebula do if she encounters Rocket and Groot, alongside any hangers-on they may have picked up on their travels?

Stark dominates such musings for the most part. Nebula may be happy enough to let him bask in denial and optimism, but despite her best efforts, she finds she can rarely do the same without being reminded that they're still going to die on this ship. She makes an effort not to point this out to Stark, much as his eagerness to get home pains her. Instead, she listens intently as he details his dreams of stepping foot on solid ground and falling into Pepper's arms.

"Where will  _you_  go?" he asks, almost hesitantly, once their fantasy guides them to Earth. It's getting to the point where they're stumbling into dangerous territory. Imagining that rescue is still a possibility is outlandish enough. Detailing a future beyond that may be momentarily pleasing, but promises to bring only pain when reality takes hold once again.

Just this once, however, Nebula lets herself play the game.

"To kill Thanos," she states matter-of-factly, not bothering to look in Stark's direction when she says the words. A considerable silence follows which suggests her statement might be one step too far in the realm of implausibility, though when she bothers to look at him, Stark's expression comes across as thoughtful rather than pitying.

"And after that?" he asks.

A huff of laughter escapes her before she can stop it. The ridiculousness of those three words must have occurred to Stark as well, for he lowers his gaze respectfully when his own grin refuses to fade.

There's a lot of presumptions in this scenario. What will Nebula do if she completes the trip to Terra, tracks down a father who doesn't want to be found, succeeds in her mission to kill him  _and_ survives the encounter? Even when she imagined herself going up against better odds, she'd never given much thought as to what she would do once Thanos lay dead at her feet. She knew well enough that challenging her father was always going to be a suicide mission.

Tracking him down to The Garden – wherever that may be – will no doubt end in pain. She can only hope that there's a version of reality somewhere in which she brings Thanos down with her.

Indulging in implausibility is the theme of this conversation, however, so just this once she decides to consider the alternative. She has no home to return to, but on the flipside, she supposes that leaves her free to travel anywhere in the universe. Perhaps she could settle on a backwater planet where nobody knows her name and create a new life for herself. If Rocket and Groot are alive, she supposes she could stay with them for a while. Calling them 'friends' seems extreme even now, but whether she likes it or not, they're the only people in the universe with whom she can truly share her grief. There have even been moments in recent years where she's considered staying with the Guardians permanently, as though seeking absolution for her misdeeds by helping the galaxy one mission at a time.

Now that Gamora is gone, however, the temptation has dimmed considerably.

Besides, dwelling on such possibilities when she knows she's unlikely to make it as far as Terra is a waste of energy. The present is all that matters now. Whether she'll even have a future to agonise over relies on her fixing this useless ship.

"Well," Stark pipes up once it becomes clear she has little more to offer. "If you ever fancy a trip to Earth, my door's always open. Call it a 'Space Buddy' privilege."

The invitation is almost ridiculous enough to have her snickering again. And yet, the earnest smile pulling at Stark's lips buries any sarcastic retort before it can emerge. The idea that there may be a place for her in the universe when all is said and done is a privilege she thought she'd lost with Gamora. Time had made her accustomed to endlessly wandering the universe - lost and alone - until her sister promised she was always welcome aboard their ship. Her recent losses combined with the  _Benatar_ 's untimely death seemed as clear a signal as any that there is no place for Nebula in this new universe.

Until Stark made his offer with little trace of hesitation.

Nebula would not thrive on Terra, she knows. From what Stark has told her, the planet seems endlessly dull and rather backwards from a technological standpoint. Humans are still making baby-steps where space-travel is concerned, and their translation systems are so rudimentary that many can't even comprehend  _each other's_  languages, let alone the communication methods of other species. No doubt Nebula would stick out like a sore thumb if she were to venture into their cities, and besides, any planet that gave rise to Quill has to have something unpleasant in the water.

That said, Stark isn't too shabby as representatives of the human race go. If she ever finds herself in need of company in this hypothetical future they're concocting, she supposes spending a few days on Terra will be bearable enough if his offer still stands.

Better to belong on a tiny corner of a third-rate planet than to belong nowhere in the universe.

* * *

By the end of week two, a strange paradox emerges.

On paper, their situation is beginning to look rather desperate. Their efforts have mildly extended their oxygen supply, but only by seven days. Despite careful rationing, their food supply has dwindled to the point where they're living off one meal a day, or less if they can suffer through hunger. More than once, Stark has tried to compensate for the fact that Nebula assigns him larger portions by offering her more, and every time she gently eases his offerings away with a minute shake of her head. She has explained that her enhanced body requires far less sustenance than his does – especially as he's still healing – but Stark continues to grapple with the difference between accepting logic and going along with it in practice.

Regardless of any remonstrations, Nebula's always able to convince him to finish his portions. Admittedly, that might be more to do with her repeated threats of force-feeding rather than a sign that he's conquered his moral quandaries.

Optimism is hard to find elsewhere as well. Running constant repairs is thirsty work, to the point where they've had to break out the Xandarian ale once or twice just to make their water supply last longer. Their distress signal has attracted no rescuers from the depths of space, not even Ravagers intent on stealing what little resources they have to offer. As soon as one item is fixed, it seems two more systems take it upon themselves to become temperamental. From an outsider's perspective, their circumstances must appear so hopeless that one might wonder why they don't simply lie down and wait for the end.

You wouldn't guess it to look at them, however. The frantic nature of their earlier routine has relaxed over time, to the point where they seem positively carefree as they work. Part of that might be related to the growing trust between them. It's much easier to rest when you feel certain that your shipmate isn't going to cut your throat in your sleep.

Mostly, Nebula imagines it's denial. On Stark's part especially. The less he dwells on his impending mortality, the easier it is to relax and pretend that the work they're doing isn't entirely futile.

He resorts to singing on Day Fifteen.

Nebula has her suspicions that he's been fighting this impulse for some time. More than once she's stumbled in on him humming loudly, only to stop the instant she joins his side. She's never openly berated him for enjoying the music, but she supposes her experiences with Quill have left her with a lingering distaste to the point where her face must betray a sliver of disapproval. Besides, Stark always came across as being more comfortable with talking than singing, though today something within him must have snapped.

He has a pleasant voice, as far as Nebula can tell. Unlike Quill, he never attempts anything too loud or brash. Nothing that  _would_ snap what little patience she has and force her to break the spell. Mostly he sings under his breath as though desperate not to be heard, but his tone is sweet and his voice combines with the music well enough that it might as well be part of the recording.

Nebula ignores him for the most part – focusing on her task of fixing the heating systems – though the lack of attention only seems to empower him. As the hours pass, with no protest forthcoming, singing under one's breath eventually becomes full-on belting. It gets to the point where an attempt to replicate a shrill vocal has Stark collapsing into fits of giggles while Nebula simply glowers at him, one disapproving eyebrow raised.

"Oh, come on!" he reprimands her between giggles, and there's a moment where she wonders if he's finally become hysterical. Perhaps his growing calm has simply been a sign that she's watching him go insane. "Give it another hour and I  _guarantee_  I can have you singing along to Led Zeppelin."

"I don't sing," she mutters, returning her attention to the mess of wires at her feet so as not to get dragged further into Stark's ridiculousness.

No such luck.

"Not  _yet_ ," Stark says, though his expression softens when she shoots him a glare and a low growl rumbles in her throat. An amused smile lingers and there's a twinkle in tired eyes that suggests he's gleaning far more humour from this situation than she is, but the loss of a challenge in his demeanour has her relaxing slightly. "You don't even need to know the words. Nobody ever knows what Robert Plant's singing anyway."

Nebula stops what she's doing for a moment and tries to focus on the current song with some degree of interest. In the absence of Stark's screeching, the voice he's trying to emulate is hardly unpleasant, though she can understand why one would struggle to understand it. Not that that's a new thing. Most of the words to Quill's songs go over her head, and on the rare occasions where she does understand what's being sung, she finds the topics of love and attraction to be monumentally dull.

Seeming to sense her continued lack of interest, Stark admits defeat with a weak shrug and simply returns to his own work with an undeterred, "If you change your mind, I promise not to judge."

In the end, she never quite surrenders to Stark's implied challenge. While he continues to enjoy singing sweetly under his breath, the same urge never grips Nebula; not even when some of the words do linger firmly enough that she could mouth along to them if she wanted to.

After a few hours, however, the music becomes enjoyable enough that she'll find herself absently humming along to the odd melody. Such moments are few and far between; one line or two will be all she manages before work preoccupies her once more. Though she avoids looking at Stark directly for fear of what she'll find, a quick glance is enough to reveal a proud smile.

Any other time and Nebula may have been shamed by her lack of restraint, but for the moment she finds it difficult to care. Opportunities to find small pleasures in life are fleeting enough as it is. Their current circumstances have only emphasised that much.

They pass the rest of the day like that. Stark sings and Nebula hums, whenever the inclination takes her, and for a few precious hours nothing – not hunger nor exhaustion nor fear – can shatter their illusion of peace.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Nebula isn't sure what exactly makes her relent to Stark's pleas to play a pointless game - no doubt one of many relics from Terra he's come to miss.

It could be the fact that he's spoken about literally nothing else all day. Where once he'd been adamant that they spend every waking hour trying to put the ship together, now that the clock is truly ticking it seems he's given up hope that their work will make a difference and simply wants to enjoy the time he has left. Nebula would be content to leave him to it while she got on with her own tasks, but he's been annoyingly insistent that she join him in indulging in mindless fun.

The prospect had seemed idiotic frankly, especially when she finally conceded and forced herself to endure his explanation of the rules. And yet, she supposes she serves as much purpose here as she would performing yet another useless repair-job.

"…So, if I were to just flick it like this-"

Stark takes a second to line up the shot, balancing a silver shard between delicate fingers, before launching it towards Nebula. Seeing the metal in flight has her lunging forward, primed to catch it with a startled growl before she has a chance to recall the rules. She knows she's made a mistake the instant she catches Stark's eye, and she frowns in frustration despite him giving no indication of annoyance.

"You don't need to do that," he points out, keeping his tone patient even as Nebula silently berates herself. "Because, uh, you're just holding the position. See?"

Once again, he demonstrates what she needs to do by placing his index fingers together and holding them out far enough that a well-aimed flick could score a goal. Nebula nods, before taking the tiny shard and holding it upright, frowning in concentration as she assesses how to hit it. She flicks it upward, satisfied with the height she achieves, only to be disappointed when it misses the mark and flies off the table.

Not that Stark seems to mind.

"That was close!" he says, as though placating a child, and Nebula snarls in frustration at her failure. Any irritation fades quickly though; Stark's words could be mistaken for patronising, but one glance at his face is enough to confirm he's being genuine in his encouragement.

Nebula stays still for Stark's next shot, keeping her fingers together as demonstrated. The shard misses her goal when he flicks it this time, and with the metal back in position on her end, she carefully aims it straight-on before letting it fly. This time it soars over his joined fingers and lands before him with a satisfying rattle.

"That's a goal," Stark declares. "We're now one apiece."

"I would like to try again," Nebula says, the thrill of victory lightening her heart enough that she craves another taste of it. It's foolish to feel so strongly about a children's game, she knows, but she can't deny that this is the lightest she's felt in weeks. The same can probably be said for Stark. He certainly looks more carefree in this environment than she's ever known him to be.

They continue their back-and-forth in relative silence, agreeing halfway-through to aim for a score of five as the cue to end the round. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to what direction the shard will go when its launched, with both of them managing their share of impressive goals alongside humiliating misses. Stark is the first to reach four goals, but the newfound fear of loss serves as an excellent motivator. Nebula takes her next shot with extreme care – using what she's learned to strike the shard with just the right force – and she can't help but smile when she watches it soar over the goalpost.

"We're tied up," Stark announces, returning her smile with ease. "Feel the tension? It's fun."

It _is_  fun. Nebula can't remember the last time fun was an option for her. Even on her stints with the Guardians she tended to feel like the odd one out; the outsider who couldn't completely surrender to the ridiculous impulses that gripped the others. The desperation of their circumstances makes her current enjoyment feel all the more absurd, but the more they play, the more the wider universe falls away and stops mattering.

 _This is what being a child is like,_ she thinks, and the notion is so sweet that her heart aches.

"That was terrible," Stark admonishes himself as his next shot barely lifts off the table, collapsing with a pitiful clatter. "Now you have a chance to win."

Adrenaline courses through her at the prospect. As Stark primes his fingers into goal position, she lines up the shard with extreme care and takes a moment to calculate the exact force and velocity she'll need. They've been playing long enough that she thinks she's grasped the proper way to aim. Her eyes narrow with a laser focus and she can feel her tongue sticking out in concentration, before she sends the shard flying with a precise flick of her fingers. It seems to take longer than usual to land and her heart is in her throat every microsecond it lingers in the air, but once she sees it clear Stark's goal, all tension makes way for sweet triumph.

"And, you've won!" Stark declares with ease. The notion is so alien that Nebula leans back in her seat as though anticipating a cruel joke, but none comes forth. Instead, Stark simply extends his hand in a display of sportsmanship. "Congratulations. Fair game."

Nebula considers his proffered hand for only a moment, before reaching out and taking it in her own. They shake to a game well-played, and Stark squeezes her hand gently before letting go with a soft smile.

"You have fun?" he asks, seeming to genuinely care about what her answer will be, and the question is so innocent that she finds herself taken aback.

"...That was fun," she concurs after a beat, though she can't bring herself to meet Stark's gaze as she admits it. She wonders if he realises just how foreign the idea of enjoying a mindless game is to her. Then again, he has demonstrated an ability to read her that few others have ever possessed.

Her admission gets him to smile – a small thing that has crinkles forming around his eyes – and though she can't summon one in return, he hardly seems to mind. They take a moment longer to relish in her victory, until Stark gathers the shard from his side of the table and hands it back to her.

"Now then," he says, clapping his hands together before forming yet another makeshift goal. "Best of three?"

* * *

Best of Three quickly turns into Best of Eleven, with Nebula winning six games to rival Stark's five. By game seven it becomes clear that neither wants to break the spell and return to bleak reality, but such knowledge never disrupts the playful tension between them. When Stark declares her the final victor with no sense of dismay – only a graceful pride – Nebula doesn't bother holding back a smile as she shakes his hand, and she feels almost mournful when he rubs tired eyes and excuses himself from the table.

She lingers for a moment. Watches as Stark drags himself to the cockpit with a heaviness the last few hours had freed him of. There's still music playing cheerily over the speakers and the lighting is warm and bright, but the game's end has brought reality crashing back. Hunger coils within her gut, but she suppresses the desire to eat. Her rations are almost finished, and the momentary relief a few meagre bites will bring is hardly worth premature starvation.

Though it might not come to that. They're nearing the end of their oxygen's lifespan so suffocation may take them before hunger gets the chance.

Dismissing such morbid notions for the moment, she rises to her feet and returns to her usual place by the comms. As the days have gone by, this slot in her routine has felt more and more like time-wasting, but with no significant repairs to be done it's the best hope she has of feeling useful. There's little else to do besides rest and eat. Or play, in today's case.

She tries for her usual hour and no longer. Delivers her speech, waits, open the comms-link only to hear the empty hiss of static, then delivers her speech all over again. The repetition would be therapeutic in less dire circumstances, she thinks. True, the static brings a sickening bolt of dread, but everything else is as menial as the many tasks that have admirably passed the time of late. As the minutes pass, she lets her mind wander to thoughts of other games she can play – perhaps she could even teach Stark a few – or the impossible notion of reaching his home; fantasies she will chastise herself for later, but which bring comfort her current task is incapable of providing.

The hour passes. No would-be heroes make themselves known. Nebula sighs and hangs her head, feeling a heavy exhaustion creep into her bones, and activates the distress signal once more. At this rate, if anyone does pick up their transmission, they'll no doubt stumble upon a ship completely devoid of life.

Ignoring the hunger pangs clawing at her stomach and the churning dread caused by the lack of response, she leaves the comms unit and quietly stalks towards the cockpit. There's an unnatural stillness in the ship now. Even the music is gone. Stark must have turned it off sometime after their game, and its absence only emphasises what a reliable presence it has been of late. The hub of the living area is dark as well. If Stark is still here, he is likely fast asleep.

Sure enough, it isn't long before she finds him curled on his side; cradling his helmet close by as though to protect it from hidden dangers.

There's a brief moment in which he looks dead. He's too pale under unnatural green light, and the shadows cast across his still form only highlight how much weight he's lost. Fear doesn't have time to clutch at Nebula's heart before she spots the slight rise and fall of his chest, though she knows any relief is fleeting. They're approaching the final hours. Their oxygen supply is near the end of its tether and it won't be long before Nebula  _does_ find him dead and gone.

Now is not that moment, however, so she casts any thought of the future aside and focuses on the living, breathing man before her now.

He can't be comfortable like this. The floor is cold and unforgiving, especially now that the heating systems are beginning to shut down. The look on his face isn't one of discomfort, but it isn't peaceful either. Quiet as a shadow, Nebula kneels by his side and gently eases him up off the floor, supporting his dead weight as she slowly brings him to his feet. His head finds its way onto her shoulder and consciousness grips him just enough to hold himself upright, but for the most part she takes the lead. She carefully guides him onto one of the pilot-seats; easing him onto soft leather and resting his head against the back of the chair to prevent it from lolling against his chest. A slit of brown greets her when she meets his gaze, but he falls back into slumber easily when Nebula hushes him.

She stays just long enough to be satisfied that he's content - pressing an uncharacteristically gentle hand to his shoulder - before turning away and leaving him to his rest.

She hopes he never wakes up. If the oxygen runs dry while he sleeps, he can slip away without experiencing the throes of pain and fear. There may even be contentment in his final hours as he dreams of home and the people he loves.

A peaceful death.

Nebula can only imagine what that's like.

Her own promises to be more drawn-out. Her cybernetics will keep her functioning for at least two days after the air supply is lost, but it won't be long before what little flesh remains screams for precious oxygen. If the universe is kind, she'll pass out from hunger before then, but she imagines she'll get no peace at the end; envisions herself convulsing and gasping for air in her final moments.

Surprisingly, she is no longer afraid. Disappointed, perhaps, but not frightened of the end.

For all she knows, she'll wake to Gamora waiting with one of her sad smiles. Nebula's never believed in heaven or hell – expects little more than oblivion even now – but in her final days she thinks she's willing to pretend that she can see her sister again.

That after everything she's suffered and lost, there'll be some peace at the end of the road.

* * *

A groan escapes her as she's forcibly dragged through a rude awakening.

With a snarl, she buries her head deeper into a soft pillow and tries to ease herself back into restfulness. Her preference has leaned more towards chairs of late – allowing for rest just fitful enough that waking feels less like a chore – but tonight she's elected to collapse in one of the bedrooms. If they've reached the stage where important repairs can be set aside for mindless games, Nebula figures she can prioritise her comfort just this once.

The mattress beneath her is so soft she fears she'll drown in it, but the sheets are pleasant and warm, and she had been enjoying her slumber until something yanked her out of it.

Now that she's awake, however, she cannot identify what roused her. The air is cool from their faulty heating systems, but the sheets have remedied that and it's hardly so cold that her breath freezes in the air. There's no indication that Stark is up and about; no light drifting from the hub nor sounds of hushed activity as he works. No doubt he's still sleeping himself.

Nebula listens intently for a few moments, glancing around the room as though her answer lurks in the shadows. When nothing of note emerges, however, she simply throws the sheets back over her head and clenches her eyes shut.

She's barely begun to drift when a distant noise has her sitting bolt upright.

There's a hiss emerging from deep within the ship. Nebula's first impression of yet another malfunction has her rolling her eyes in vexation, but her conclusions alter as the hissing begins to stop and start for no reason. It isn't long before another sound joins the mix. At first, the new addition is barely discernible from the endless hiss, but with each passing second it becomes clearer and clearer.

Nebula discards her warm sheets and slowly climbs out of bed, ears peeled as she edges towards the door. The longer she listens, the more that unintelligible sound differentiates itself from the piercing hiss to the point where it almost resembles a...

_Voice._

She's hearing a woman's voice.

Nebula launches herself at the door as certainty grips her tight, practically sprinting to the comms unit. Here she can clearly hear a scrambled voice in the mix, though the signal remains too weak for anything resembling words to come forth. There's a sickening moment where it seems to be lost entirely – sentencing Nebula once again to a void of silence – but with the flicking of a few buttons, the voice becomes loud and clear.

"...lo? Do you read me?"

Nebula reaches for the microphone in a heartbeat. The adrenaline of the moment leaves her clumsy and the device almost slips from her grasp, but she steadies herself just long enough to utter those familiar words.

"This is the  _Benatar_ ," she confirms, with far more passion than usual. Her heart hammers in her chest – both organic and mechanical components threatening to stop – but she calms her voice as much as she can. "I hear you. Who's speaking?"

"Do you have a Tony Stark on board?"

Nebula stills.

The voice doesn't seem hostile. If anything, the woman on the end of the line sounds kind, but it isn't lost on Nebula that she seems in no hurry to reveal her identity. How many people have the means to find Stark in this hidden corner of the galaxy? From what he'd told her of his friends and associates, space travel is far from a habit Terrans are accustomed to. Stark included.

Who could possibly know to look for him here?

"How do you-"

"I've been sent to find him," the voice responds before Nebula can complete her sentence, a soft lilt removing some of the implied menace from those words. It's not enough to make Nebula trust her potential rescuer entirely; but then, trusting people isn't exactly her forte. She's only come this far with Stark because necessity demanded it. "His friends would very much like to get him home."

Home. _Earth_. Nebula can recall Stark's tales of his planet in pristine detail, though the idea of him returning there had always been an impossibility. Those stories were merely to provide him with comfort as he yearned for a home he could never return to. And now, out of nowhere, here comes the spark of hope Nebula has never let herself embrace. A flurry of jealousy coils in her gut at the notion of Stark's friends loving him so much as to actively seek him out, but she buries it easily. She may end up owing her life to those same friends.

It occurs to her that she should probably wake Stark and drag him here, if only to confirm that she isn't hallucinating. At the very least he may recognise the voice and provide some sense of security. The risk of missing a vital piece of data is too great for her to abandon her post, however.

"Is he alive?" the voice asks, almost hesitantly, and it hits Nebula that she's let the silence drag for too long.

"Yes," she says, glancing in the direction of the cockpit. She cannot see Stark from this sequestered corner of the ship, but she can envisage him sleeping in his chair easily enough. It occurs to her that she hardly has confirmation of whether he still breathes, though the fact that she can inhale without pain implies their supply has yet to run out. "But not for long. Our oxygen is running low. You'll need to get here within the next few hours or-"

"Keep an eye out," the voice interrupts once more, seemingly unfazed by Nebula's urgency. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Nebula blinks. Opens her mouth to speak only to find it clamping shut again. She knows, deep down, that she must have heard wrongly, and yet there's no reason for this to be the case. The signal has strengthened to the point where every word is crystal clear.

 _"Fifteen?"_  she asks, feeling shame rise at the fact that she even needs the clarification. It occurs to her that this is quite possibly a cruel joke. An elaborate one, certainly, but the notion isn't outwith the realm of possibility.

"Consider it a promise," the voice confirms, as though her proposal to appear out of thin air is the most normal thing in the galaxy.

It's only now that Nebula pays attention that a faint rush of noise becomes apparent with every response, and the ever-strengthening signal implies the woman is moving within range at an astounding rate. Especially considering the sputtering hisses which characterised her earliest transmissions.

"May I ask your name?" the woman asks with what seems to be genuine curiosity.

Nebula feels her jaw clench with unease as she recalls the woman has yet to surrender her own identity. Her name has been a closely-guarded secret for weeks. The wrong person stumbling upon a transmission from Thanos's only living daughter might well have ensured her death, with Stark perishing as collateral damage. This woman may claim to be here for Stark's benefit, but Nebula has earned no such devotion. If their would-be rescuer knows of her reputation, she may well be left on this ship to die.

She doubts Stark would let that happen. Not without a fight anyway. Nebula knows she too would fight tooth-and-nail to climb aboard any ship that approaches, though in her current state she can hardly guarantee an easy victory.

Nebula knows Stark though. She even trusts him, gods help her. If this woman is truly associated with the people who love him, perhaps Nebula can risk sharing her identity.

It's hardly like she has anything left to lose.

"Nebula."

The forbidden utterance feels like fire on her tongue, but the condemnation she fears never comes.

"Nice to meet you, Nebula," the stranger replies, so earnestly that Nebula can almost picture her smile. "Call me Carol."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've almost caught up to canon, which means I'm almost at the end of this story. Thank you so much for reading this and for your lovely responses! It's been great fun to write and has grown far beyond the one-shot I initially intended it to be. There will be an epilogue after this which I'll aim to finish as soon as I can.
> 
> Thank you again for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Epilogue

It is a strange sensation, to be moving again after so many days of stillness.

The  _Benatar_ appears to concur, despite its lack of active role in their travels. The mere concept of motion has her groaning as several systems pass her by. More than once she screeches loudly enough that Nebula wonders if she'll fall apart from the strain, and wouldn't that be a perfect irony? There would be a certain poetry in being stranded for so long, only to die during the hopeful journey home.

As Stark is fond of reminding her, it is possible they are already dead. What other explanation can there be for a saviour to appear out of the blue, radiating starlight, with hair floating like a halo and a smile pulling at her lips? Nebula hadn't been present for Carol's approach, but she'd been alerted the instant the ship became awash in a golden glow three minutes earlier than promised. Carol had waited just long enough to greet Nebula with a firm nod - which Nebula had stoically returned to Stark's bewilderment – before vanishing from view. One could surmise she'd simply been a figment of their shared imaginations, until the  _Benatar_ gave a sickening lurch and began to move; a slow crawl at first, only to pick up speed to the point where stars and planets pass them by in a swirl of reds and blues and golds.

Nebula had almost forgotten how beautiful space-flight can be. The unchanging view beyond the window had grown so poisonous she would avoid facing it at all costs, but now she cannot bear to tear her eyes away. Their velocity makes it seem as though they are passing through a vortex, with the universe streaming by as streaks of colour and light as Earth draws ever-closer. More than once, she muses over how Carol can withstand the force of travelling all this way in so little time, though it quickly becomes clear that no answers are forthcoming.

"Do you know what she is?" Stark asks, close to five hours into their journey. It seems the fog of disbelief has lifted, for when Nebula turns his way, she finds only calm curiosity adorning his face. The certainty of his own demise might well have lessened, though doubt surely lingers at the back of his mind. They have been so certain of their oncoming deaths for so long that abandoning the thought feels like removing a limb.

"I've never seen anything like her," Nebula admits.

It isn't a lie. Not as such. Certainly, she has encountered her share of powerful creatures – from Titans to Celestials – though in her experience she has yet to find such a being that can be described as kind. The jury's still out on whether this 'Carol' has pure intentions, but so far she has upheld her promise of carrying them home. Nebula only wishes she knew what she was. A creature capable of breathing freely in space and travelling across star-systems in a matter of hours is one to be respected and feared, but Nebula cannot recall ever encountering such a being.

Fables stir in the depths of her memories though. Excitable fairy-tales exchanged in the cells, back when there were more girls to call sister besides Gamora. Joy was a rarity in those days, but they all clung to what little hope they could find, and soon enough rumours began to circulate about a being who had terrified the mighty Ronan into surrender.

_"Be_ _ware_ _of 'The Woman',"_ one of the girls had told her once. It might even have been Gamora, though Nebula cannot recall with any certainty. " _They say she burns like_ _the_ _sun and can bring down entire ships with only her fists. Ronan sent an army to destroy her once, but his was the only ship to return."_

It would seem  _The Woman_  is more than a fairy-tale after all.

"She told me your friends sent her," Nebula reminds Stark. He has heard the details of their brief conversation already, but whether he retained anything is unclear. The notion of rescue and the possibility of returning home had – understandably – been the most pressing matter at the time. "She could be from Terra."

The notion seems ridiculous when spoken aloud, and sure enough Stark lets out a huff of laughter. His smirk fades quickly though as thoughtfulness returns to his eyes.

"We don't tend to glow back on Earth," he points out, to which Nebula fails to hold back her own smile. She had noticed. In her experience, humans are rather mediocre beings. Even Quill had inherited his sole impressive attributes from his Celestial father. "Or breathe in space for that matter."

Nebula hums in agreement. As much as their saviour resembles Terrans in physical appearance, her abilities imply her origins lie elsewhere. Asgard, perhaps, though even they have limitations. The only thing she can assert with any certainty is that she isn't an 'angel' or any of the other mythical beings Stark had semi-jokingly suggested.

"Saying that, the name 'Carol' doesn't strike me as very extra-terrestrial," Stark muses, seemingly to himself. Nebula isn't well-versed enough in Terran names to agree with his statement with any degree of certainty.

"If your friends sent her, that means some of them are still alive," she tells him plainly.

The reminder serves to snap him out of a daze, and he closes his eyes only to release his breath on a shuddering exhale. When he forces himself to glance her way, Nebula can see tears gathering in his eyes, but he seems determined not to let them fall and simply acknowledges her words with a choked, " _Yeah."_

For all that Stark has enshrined himself in fantasy, Nebula knows the alternative must have pervaded his mind every time he closed his eyes. He must have spent endless hours picturing everyone he loves collapsing into ash and dust; might even have dreaded the prospect of going home for fear it would confirm those horrifying suspicions. Even the knowledge that he has friends remaining in the realm of the living is far from the reassurance he needs. Nebula thinks of all the names in his stories and can only dwell bitterly on the fact that every one has only a fifty-percent chance of being there when Stark arrives home. There's a chance that Pepper is gone. If not her, then perhaps Rhodey or Happy, or any of the countless hangers-on that make up the 'Avengers'.

At least he knows that some remain. That's more of a guarantee than Nebula's likely to get.

After another hour - or maybe two, Nebula lost track ages ago – the rush of colourful noise finally halts and the ship draws once again to a crawl. The sudden shift is nauseating. Nebula closes her eyes and simply breathes in order to adjust to their new, leisurely pace, and there's a pressure against her ears that takes several minutes to fade. When she returns to normality, she finds Stark's eyes transfixed to the window, his mouth hanging open in shock or awe or both.

This time there's no attempt to stop a single tear from falling. Nebula wonders if he's even present enough to feel it trail down his cheek.

Following his gaze brings her face-to-face with his homeland. From this distance, Earth is a rather beautiful sight. The blue of her oceans glitter under the light of a distant, roaring sun. Her lands are less plentiful than her seas, but still prominent; green forests contrasting against golden sands and grey mountains which jut into the skies. Swirling clouds lurk high above the shores while the silver veil of an atmosphere protects the planet from harm, and only a few thousand miles away, a grey moon stands guard as her sole companion.

It's a far-cry from the backwater wastelands Nebula tends to favour, though the lack of other habitable planets in this system makes Earth seem rather lonesome. She can see why Stark longed for it though. After weeks of nothing but blackness and distant stars surrounding him – with the ghosts of Titan's wastes clinging to his skin - his home must be the most beautiful sight in the universe.

"I never thanked you," Stark utters out of the blue, as they edge closer to Earth at an agonising pace. Perhaps Carol fears that attacking the atmosphere with her usual gusto will tear the ship to shreds once and for all.

"What for?" Nebula asks dismissively, though when she turns to consider Stark she finds only solemnity in his eyes. The tears are gone, though in their place is a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. It occurs to her that with the dark shadows encircling his eyes and the pallor of his skin, he'll be a sorry sight upon greeting his loved ones.

No doubt they'll hardly care, given the lengths they've gone to in order to bring him home.

"Keeping me alive," he clarifies with a weak smile, his hand unconsciously coming to rest over the wound which pains him even now. He takes a breath which seems to lighten his soul, if only a little, before returning his attention to his planet. "Keeping me sane."

A smirk pulls at her lips at the latter suggestion, though it fades in a heartbeat. Stark has a point. Their minds could have splintered at any moment during the long days spent trying to repair an irreparable ship, but they'd stubbornly refused to collapse into madness. Where her role lies in that, she cannot say. Perhaps simply being there had been enough.

She wonders what she would have done if Stark too had crumbled to ash on Titan, or bled to death in her arms, or let the fever take him as infection ravished his body. What damage would the subsequent loneliness have done to a mind already wrought with guilt and grief?

She doesn't know. She doesn't  _want_  to know.

"I suppose I should thank you for the same," she admits, with only a hint of reluctance.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Stark turning her way, but she keeps her eyes fixed ahead for fear his reaction will shatter her. It is a dangerous game, letting him peek behind her mask. The possibility remains that after today she may never see him again; it would be prudent not to get attached.

Then again, she supposes it's far too late for that.

Silence stretches on, bringing a fierce tension with it. The closer they draw to Earth, the more it hits Nebula that this is reality and not a pleasant dream; that her future now extends beyond mere days and that she'll need to prepare for a life without her sister. The obvious remedy to that would be to hunt down Thanos – an encounter she is unlikely to survive – but until she embarks on that mission, she will be forced to face a reality in which half the universe is dead and she is truly alone and unloved.

Reality, it hits her, may turn out to be far more terrifying than the prospect of suffocating alone ever was. There is a reason she and Stark have made a habit of running from it, engaging instead in pleasing fantasies which will soon be shattered into dust.

Nebula would not trade their current circumstances for anything. She knows she will be indebted to Carol and the allies who sent her for what remains of her miserable existence. However, any joy survival should bring with it is muted, somewhat, by the knowledge that the rest of the universe is still suffering because of her father's actions.

Because she failed to stop him.

Slight movement catches her eye, and she looks to find a hand extended towards her. Stark gives no indication of whether the offer is for his comfort or her own – though the fact that his haunted eyes remain fixed to his home suggests the former – but Nebula takes it regardless. She squeezes his hand gently in an echo of the gesture he gave during their game; a move which forces his eyes in her direction and elicits a weak smile which does little to hide his trepidation.

Neither of them utter another word. After baring their souls to each other over the past few weeks, Nebula imagines there's nothing left to say.

All they can do now is brace themselves as Carol guides the  _Benatar_ through the atmosphere and gently eases her towards solid ground. In a matter of minutes, Stark will find himself in the arms of his loved ones, while Nebula will breathe fresh air for the first time in weeks.

And as for what happens beyond that?

For the moment, Nebula's too exhausted to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've finally reached the end. Thank you so much to everyone who read this story, especially those who took the time to leave a comment, kudos or bookmark! 
> 
> It's been a lot of fun trying to flesh-out Nebula and Tony's return to Earth. Hopefully it was as enjoyable to read as it was to write!


End file.
